


never not going to

by searching4neverland



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, PTSD, selective mutism, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14141118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searching4neverland/pseuds/searching4neverland
Summary: "God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now. I was never not coming here. This was never not going to happen."





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is or where its going but it wasnt leaving me alone, so i thought, what the hell, i might as well write it out. i was trying to finish 'spectrum of peace' but coming back to it after years of not writing made me realize that i really, REALLY dislike the way i wrote that story. if i got back to it, it would have needed re-writing, not editing. so here i am.

_[inspiration](http://anneboleynsarchive-blog.tumblr.com/post/102770010295) _

1.

When she had the thundering of hooves getting closer and closer, like a rolling summer storm, her heart had almost stopped. She knew better than to move too suddenly, however, or even so much as twitch at this point. But despite her learned carefulness, she still felt the cold kiss of a blade at her throat.

"You know what to do, girl."

He spoke slowly, her jailer, without inflection. 

She nodded.

He showed her his yellowing teeth in a smile she would have preferred not to see. "Good."

It was then that a large group of horses thundered over the brow of the hill and straight past them. Their leader, riding at the head of them, signaled with his spear and with astonishing speed and skill, the riders checked their steeds, wheeled around, and charged the caravan.

She was pressed between two men, in a move that to anyone looking would have seemed aimed to protect her. She heard the clank of metal against their armor, beneath the raged cloaks they were wearing, but she doubted that sound traveled too far. Furiously, she started thinking of all the ways this could go bad, all the ways she could die.

The riders circled around the caravan tightly until the tip of their drawn spears were so close to the men on the ground, that there was not even room to draw a bow. One of the riders moved forward, and spoke to them from his steed. 

She did not understand his tongue, though the tone sounded harsh and impatient to her. Her captor stepped forward, arms raised. He spoke calmly, as ever. As if it was the pleasant day he was speaking of. 

She bit her tongue hard enough to feel the taste of blood in her mouth, but still, no words would come. If she had any tears left, they would have fallen.

One of the riders pointed at the cart, asked something. The flap was raised, showing the rider the barrels of spices and the wine inside.

Tradesmen, indeed.

The rider asked something else. A moment later, the hood of her cloak was pulled down. She met the pale eyes of her captor, before she looked up at the collection of faces staring at her.

"Mîn wîflic, mîn fengel.” He said, and then pointed at her face. “Yfel sêcan hîe fæstnianoferscêawian hiera of hê hîwian ymbhammen thither we âlêoran ."

She looked up, met the rider’s gaze. Tried to find his eyes under the shadow of the helm he wore. She didn’t know what she wanted him to see in truth, didn’t know if she wanted him to look beyond her ragged cloak and dirt streaked face, or not. Couldn’t tell whether the evil she knew was better or worse than another she did not. Passing from the hand of ten men with weapons into the hands of fifty, with weapons did not seem like much of an improvement, at the moment. 

And they looked so like each other, her captors and these soldiers: fair haired and foreign, with their harsh tongue and pale skin. 

One of the men by her side tightened his hold on one of her wrists, and it was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling in pain. She smiled bowed her head instead, managed a clumsy courtesy.

The leader of the riders lowered his spear, and as he did, so did all the others of his company.

"Aræfnan swilce êow hagian, siððan ." He turned to his riders and shouted an order. As if they were all of the same mind, they turned and rode away, towards the sunset.

She took a deep breath and let the tears spill down her cheeks.

Her captor turned to her, wiped one of them away even as she tried to lean away from his hand.

"You did well, lady. My thanks."

She only glared at him, jaw clenched tight. But then she was pushed to walk, and almost tripped over her feet in the effort to do so.  

"Steady." The big one ordered. He was always the one who stood closest to her. She hated him the most, some days. "We have a long way to go yet."

o

Night was quick to fall. Even quicker, she thought, than she was used to. With the dark came the cold and the further she got from home, the more unforgiving it was. They tied her to the caravan, and then gathered around the fire, where they ate.

As usual, their leader came to bring her her meager share of hard bread and cheese. He sat there in front of her as she nibbled at it, and watched. He did this every night. For almost a month now, she had been afraid he would do more than just look, but he never did.

There was a threat in that too. She felt it every time he lay eyes on her.

He looked at her as if she was not a person. He smiled at her as if he knew what she was thinking. The threat did not need to be made. He seemed to enjoy it more that way - when he saw it in her face, no matter now impassive she tried to be. 

"Will you not speak then?" He asked softly. He asked that every night too. She kept chewing on her portion, trying to move as little as possible, so as not to jostle her wounds.

"Not even if I promised to have those ropes off your wrists?"

She did not answer. Did not even look at him, fixing her eyes on the impenetrable darkness of the forest. 

"You are stubborn, lady. All of your kind are stubborn."

Her hand tightened around the small water pouch. Yes. Stubborn. She had heard that many times in her life.

So fast she almost choked on her water, he came close. Close enough that if he leaned in one inch more, his chest would brush hers.

She looked into his eyes for the first time.

"Are you afraid?"

She took a breath, and nodded slowly.

"Are you always afraid when I watch you?"

She gulped. What was better to say? What did he want to hear? She did not know! So she shook her head, told the truth. She was not always afraid, no. She could tell when he meant to scare her, and when he just looked for his pleasure. Both made her skin crawl.

He smiled then. It pleased him, to scare her. Perhaps she should not have made it so plain… and perhaps he would hurt her more, to get his pleasure. With his regular features and bright eyes, he could almost be a good looking man, but there was something hard in those eyes, something cruel about the way they glinted on his face. Something she had not recognized at first, but that she soon learned to: ruthlessness.

He reached out and she flinched, eyes widening at the sight of his dagger. She tried to move away but her back hit the cart. There was nowhere to go! He gripped her arm hard and shushed her as he slowly cut the rope that bound her hands together.

"You did good today." He said with one of his small smiles. "If you behave just as well in the days that come, I will take away the ropes around your ankles as well. I know they chaff horribly on your soft skin."

He wasn't looking at her as he spoke, but at his own hand on her arm, as if it didn't belong to him.

She sat as still as stone, arms tight against her body.

"Do your arms hurt?"

She nodded.

"They might go on hurting for some time."

The idea seemed to excite him almost. Her stomach turned. She wondered how one man could speak this way. Speaking words of care, without the least bit of care.

"Are you afraid now?"

She exhaled, put her hands on the ground at the sides of her body. Noded.

It made him smile.

He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, stroking it gently. "I've never touched you before. Is that why you're afraid?"

She just looked at him, without blinking or breathing. She hated the way he looked back.

"Why do you not ask what we mean to do with you?"

She gasped, felt her skin raising gooseflesh in disgust, and her tears finally fell, just as his fingers traced her collarbone. His face was now so close, that she could smell the wine on his breath.

Just as she felt her hand close around a sharp rock, the first blow fell. If she could she would have screamed. 

A spear flew through the night. She did not see it until it struck the body of her captor so hard that he slammed into her, and she against the cart behind her. The force of the hit was such that she lost her breath. It only lasted a few moments but it it was enough to make her think she’d never breathe again.

But she did.

And with her breath came the awareness of everything else. Of steel against steel and the screams of battle. 

Immediately she pushed the man off her and scrambled for his dagger. The metal hilt felt cold and heavy in her hands, but she did not let go of it. She cut the ropes around her ankles and then looked around to see riders bursting into the camp, too many to count, throwing spears and making quick work of the men that had captured her, without ever getting off their horses. The sight made her sweat, and it took moments she could not afford to convince her limbs to move, terror making her numb and rooting her on the spot. 

_ Get up, Lothiriel. Get up! _

She rolled under the cart and crawled to the other side of it, away from the fighting, or most of it. Once she got to her feet she started running, with nothing more than nerve and a prayer to get her through the mayhem of the clash unnoticed, begging the gods that her captors be too busy keeping alive from the attack of the riders to search for her or even take much notice as she fled. So she dashed through the plain and the dark - until she had to stop so suddenly she fell on her ass when a horse came out of nowhere and almost trampled her under its hooves. 

But she got up again, knowing she could not stop. That she could not rest, or cry, or give up. She was either going to run, or die here on this night. 

She chose to run, cutting through the night and the unknown, narrowly avoiding horses, spears and falling men. Her breath was loud in her ears, her legs hurt, and her arms too, but she did not stop running even as she made it outside the ring of the skirmish. She knew they would catch her fast if she did not reach the woods. A running girl was no match for such a cavalry. Her only hope was for them not to realize she was gone until after everything was over over.

But such a thing was not to be. Just as she saw the dark mass of the trees in front of her, she heard the sound of hooves behind her, and she knew it was over. They had her surrounded in the space it took her to take ten more steps.

It all seemed to happen so slowly. She'd heard it said that one's last moments on earth always happened too fast to realize. Her brother had told her once that men don't even feel the wound that kills them. But she… she saw it all happen at a snail's pace. The way they surrounded her. How she was left with nowhere to run, and how everywhere she turned she saw men, armored and mounted. Looking at her. At one girl, and the knife in her hand. 

The man to her left raised his bow but did not loosen the arrow. All she was thinking of was ‘this is how I’m going to die.’ but then one of their riders stepped off his horse, and she brought her dagger to her own throat.

He looked immediately alarmed. "Don't!"

Her breath hitched. It wasn't his command that stopped her, but the words he said. Words she  _ understood _ .

"We mean you no harm, girl. The men who held you are captured or dead."

Her hand shook. The blade at her throat was growing warm by her heat. The man in front of her did not move towards her and his palms when he showed them to her were empty.

He took off his helmet slowly, never looking away from her.

"You're a long way from home, aren't you?" he said, and it sounded almost gentle. But then he frowned. "Do you understand me?"

She took one breath, and then another. What harm could it do now? If they meant to kill her, she was already dead.

So she nodded.

"Will you please put the dagger down?"

She didn't want to. But even as she thought of it without moving more riders came in their midst. They spoke to each other, but it was just noise to her. A word here and there jumped out, but not much else.

She willed herself to straighten her arms at her sides. To stand tall and breathe easy, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. When he took a step towards her, immediately she took one back. He showed her his palms again, as if the absence of a weapon in them would make him less of a threat.

"Easy. My name is Theodred, son of Theoden, Second Marshall of the Mark." He waited, and then angled his head at her silence. "Will you give me your name?"

She pursed her lips, gritted her teeth. The frustration felt like a bubbling scream, and she might have let it out… if she could.

How though? How to make herself understood? How to keep herself alive?

She looked up, determined, into the eyes of Theodred, son of Theoden. Tapped her throat twice, let her hand linger there so that his eyes might see and then shook her head, so that he might understand.

His confusion was momentary. "You… cannot speak?"

She let out a long breath, a silent sob. Nodded. No, she could not.  


	2. 2

2.

She ran across the sandy hillocks, slippers abandoned by the path, curls loose in the wind. Her caretaker called her name, but Lothiriel only ran faster. In the distance, close to the shore, she could already see the silhouettes of her brothers - and another, who was surely her cousin.

Her smile brightened even more.

“Faramir!”

He turned when he heard her shouting his name, and smiled when she ran straight into the the surf where he had been standing in, and into his arms, to the great amusement of both Amrothos and Elphir. Faramir lifted his cousin up and swung her around, making her laugh loudly before he set her down again.

“Missed me?” he asked as he stooped down to see eye to eye with her. She was tall for her eight years of age, and all knees and elbows. Her smile was brighter than the sun on a midsummer’s day however. even if she did have two teeth missing, much to his amusement.

“I did! What are you doing?”

“Looking for seashells, for you.” He said. She touched the seashell necklace that she was wearing that very moment.

“I’m going to help you.” she said then, and kneeled into the water, laughing when her linen summer skirts puffed up around her. She spotted a good shell and presented it to her cousin’s hand. 

“Beautiful. We can make one for your brothers too.”

She rolled her eyes. “They don't wear them anymore.”

“I do!” Amrothos called from their left.

Lothiriel turned to him. “No you don’t. You’re not even wearing it now!”

“I forgot it in my room.”

“I don't believe you.”

He splashed her and Lothiriel squealed when the cool water of the bay trickled down her back.

“Amrothos!”

“Not even a hug for her own brother. Forgotten, i am, like chopped liver.”

“I saw you just last week!” She grumbled, splashing her hands in the water, trying to get back at her brother.

He just shrugged and then dashed after her. Lothiriel screamed and tried to run away, but running in water was difficult, her feet were small, and her brother was tall. He caught her soon enough, lifted her up like the child she was, and then threw her in the water. She landed with a splash, her laughter cut short when she went under.

“Amrothos!” Faramir chided.

Amrothos laughed and dove in to go after her, just as Lothiriel resurfaced and then squealed when she saw him swimming towards her to get her again.

“Don’t worry - she swims like a fish.” Elphir reassured him.

Faramir turned to him. “According to your mother, she could swim like a fish since she was two.”

“Close enough.”

Just then Lothiriel dove for Amrothos, put her hands on his shoulders and lifted herself up, trying to use her own weight to dip him under the waves. Farmir smiled when he saw Amroths disappear under the water. He was tall at 16, almost as broad as his brothers, and it was unlikely Lothiriel could have the better of him. But he, more than the rest of her brothers, let Lothiriel do as she liked.

A few feet away from them Lothiriel gasped. “Faramir, look, there’s a silver one just down there.”

“What?”

“A shell! I’ll get it!”

Elphir started, but a moment too late - Lothiriel had already gone under.

“Lothi, no! Amrothos!”

But Amrothos had dived after his sister before Elphir even spoke, and brought her back up,  sputtering.

“Hey! Stop that!” She pushed her brother away, but he did not let her go.

“Lothi, you know better.” Amrothos explained irritably, trying to keep her from diving again. Then, when he noticed both Elphir and Faramir frowning at him, he smoothed his voice a little. “The bay is deeper that it looks, you could drown trying to catch that shell.”

“But-”

“I mean it. It’s three times deeper than i am tall. You couldn’t swim that far down and come back up.”

“That sounds silly.” Lothiriel pouted, but she did follow her brother to the shallows.

“I’ll get it for you.”

“I wanted to get it myself.”

Faramir picked her up. “We can find another. The bay is full of them, cousin.”

“Well, fine. I'm going to help mama make the necklaces this time. Will you wear it Faramir?”

“When have i ever not?”

“Well, i wouldn't know, would i? You never come here anymore.”

Faramir smiled softly, pushed a wet curl away from her forehead. “I’m here now, aren't i?”

Lothiriel didn’t say anything to that. She looked over to examine the seashells in his hand. “Is Boromir coming?”

“No, not this time, little dove.”

Lothiriel nodded without looking up. She didn’t say anything but she didn't need to, to know that she was disappointed.

Faramir extended his other hand to her. “Come, let’s take these to the shore and put them to dry on the rocks.”

“Then we can go sailing.” Amrothos added, and finally that seemed to cheer Lothiriel up.

“How are your lessons going?” Faramir asked as they sat on the warm rocks close to the shore.

“Oh, very well. I’ve written some new songs, my masters are very proud. And mother thinks i should start practicing the violin as well as the harp. I am going to be giving a concert at the White Hall in some months, father said so!”

Faramir chuckled. “Yes, i heard. And other lords too, are keen to have you as a guest, i hear.”

The questions was directed more at her brothers but it was still lothiriel who answered it.

“I would so love to go to North, to Edhellond. The best masters of music in Gondor are there, everyone says so, but they don't teach girls.”

Elphir huffed. “That might soon change if aunt Ivriniel has anything to do with it.”

Lothiriel’s guardian finally caught up to them, and put a large-brimmed hat on the princess’ head, no matter how much Lothiriel fussed, she was not allowed to take it off.

“None for me?” Amrothos teased the older woman.

“You’re already hopeless.” Faramir said, shoving a laughing Amrothos out of the way. Amroths flicked his cousin with a towel, and they started play-fighting as her nurse slathered Lothiriel’s face, neck and arms with a paste to keep the sun from burning her.

They were almost halfway at the boat when Lothiriel startled and ran back where they came from.

“Lothi!”

“The seashells!”


	3. 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Theodred being there is a bit unlikely since he lived in Helm's Deep, but once i decided that he would be the one to find Lothiriel, I didn't want to chance it. Also, Bryna means 'high leaping flame' in old english, according to google. Idk how accurate this is. But anyway, the name was chosen for its meaning, since she is meant to have very bright red hair.

3.

> " _I am thinking about her. I am thinking about her even though I don't want to think about her. I am thinking about her because I can't forget her, because I continue to look back at her. She is the only one. I can't let go of what once was and what will never be again. I can't face the fact that she is gone gone gone…"_

James Frey, from A Million Little Pieces

> " _You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love."_

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena.

 

By the time Theodred and his men came back to the site of the skirmish, it was all over. The girl they had chased rode with them, behind Bryna, hands clasped around the other woman's waist. It did not surprise Eomer that she was frightened, but once she dismounted - knees almost giving out despite Bryna's hand steadying her - the glinting blade at her belt did manage to make him pause. It seemed unlikely his cousin had not noticed it. Indeed, it was impossible.

Eomer saw Red steady the foreigner again and then pass her a blanket. A smart decision, Eomer thought. He'd seen her shivering all the way from where he stood. He saw Bryna's mouth move, but could not hear the words and from the look on the foreigners face, neither did she, but Red did not stay to make herself understood. She passed the girl to one of the other riders - Brigid, if the bright hair was any indication - and she moved on to her duties. No one could ever say Red's manner was gentle, but the girl didn't seem to notice the brusqueness at all. She didn't even throw the blanket over her own shoulders - Brigit, who was far more patient than Bryna ever hoped to be, helped her.

The gondorian did not notice that kindness either. Her eyes shone in the torchlight like a cats, and they were fixed upon the row of prisoners at the far end of the camp.

"Any losses?"

Eomer turned to face his cousin. "None. The prisoners have been secured."

"Have they said anything?"

"Not a word yet. Has she?"

Theodred removed his helmet and passed a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was feeling irritated. "She says she cannot."

Eomer frowned. "She's mute?"

"Apparently so." Then he turned towards Eomer, and in his cousin's eyes he could see the urgency. "It's important we find out who she is and how she came to be here."

"I will. I can take them to Aldburg - it's closer than Edoras, and with less eyes watching."

They shared a look, both knew exactly what they spoke of. or rather, who.

"Is it wise to allow her a blade?" Eomer asked then. Theodred's eyes were fixed on the five prisoners where they were, kneeling in the dirt in a neat little row, but Eomer had no doubt his cousin had heard him however. Theodred had an extraordinary ability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time.

"If having that dagger makes her feel safe, than she may keep it. I need her trust more than i need her unarmed." Theodred said. "In truth, i think she's no danger to anyone but herself."

Just then Bryna came to a stop by Theodred's other side and snorted when she heard his last words. "That she is. Almost cut her own throat when we caught up with her. I'll give her credit for courage, if nothing else."

Eomer chanced another look at the foreigner. She was as before: pale, waned and unblinking eyes still fixed on the prisoners. She must have been scared out of her mind to do that. And unwilling to be a captive again. Eomer could not blame her for thinking they meant to imprison her. There had been a couple of flaxen haired men among her captors, and at least one of them spoke their language as one born to it. Though he couldn't understand why a rohirrim would want to bring such a danger to his lands.

"Most of the caravan has been dispatched to corpse hall, i see." Bryna said than, a smirk tilting her lips. "Growing careless, Eomer?"

"Those who surrendered were spared." Eomer said simply. "Those who fought to kill were stopped, when we could stop them. Killed when we could not. They certainly fought like the devil was in them."

It was Theodred who gave voice to what Eomer had been suspecting. "They did not want to be questioned."

"And  _she_ does not speak either. Which is convenient. I could swear she's deaf as well as mute."

"She is not herself, Red." Theodred said calmly.

Bryna sighed.

"I know." her voice was softer this time. "We have secured the line but you should not tarry here, Marshall. You're already late as it is."

Very few aside from family would dare tell the prince what to do, but Bryna had known Theodred since they had been young enough to play with wooden swords. It was no secret they were close.

"Your visit to the Eastmark turned out to be more adventurous than expected." Eomer said with a smile, which his cousin returned.

"It seems so. Can't decide if it's my bad luck or yours."

Bryna rolled her eyes at both of them. "Trouble loves all fools equally. One might consider locking you both up inside your houses, so that the rest of us might get some peace."

Theodred grinned at her. "I would not mind that at all as long as you stayed with me, Red."

"Shut up, your grace." But she was smiling, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Theodred chuckled.

"She needs to be watched, i think." Eomer said after a moment.

Theodred did not try to hide his surprise. "You think she is dangerous?"

"I think she's been staring at her captors for too long." Eomer tipped his chin in the foreigners direction. Both Theodred and Bryna turned to look at her at the same time and Eomer knew they saw what he had seen. Theodred said nothing, a frown coming over his face, but Red snorted her disbelief.

"Much good may it do her. She's half starved and ready to drop."

Eomer shrugged. "You never know. Vengeance is a strange beast."

But even he had to concede to the truth of the facts in front of him. No matter what might be swirling in her mind, if the foreigner was half as tired as she looked, she wouldn't be able to do much harm to anyone.

"You truly think she is of Gondor?" Bryna asked then, voice pitched low so that it would not carry beyond the three of them.

"I do."

"Why?" Eomer asked, glancing back at the foreigner for only a moment. "Dark hair is rare in the Mark, but it's not impossible to find."

"It's more than just the looks of her."

Theodred did not say anything more but he did not need to. She had been too well guarded to be anything but of value. Which meant she was noble, perhaps, or the daughter of some rich lord of the south. No one in their right mind would kidnap a woman like that only for the pleasure of her company.

"Besides where else could she be from? I doubt she's one of the dundelings. And if she was of Harad, they would have taken her further south, not brought her here."

"She's been a captive, that much is certain." Red conceded. "The skin of her wrists is close to shredded where they bound her, and they bound her ankles too. Just for the pleasure of hurting her, I'm sure, the fuckers. But why the hell bring her here? It makes no sense!"

Theodred's face was impassive when he spoke, but Eomer could see the anger there, brewing slowly.

"It does if you're trying to start a war," His cousin said, each word dropping like stones in dark water. .

Bryna pursed her lips, a sure sign her temper was flaring. Eomer looked back at the spot where the gondorian had last been - and cursed when he did not see her there. The blanket she had been given laid on the ground where she should have been.

"What?" Bryna snapped. "Oh, bugger, where is she?"

Eomer did not need to look for long. "The prisoners!"

She was mere yards away from them.

Bryna growled. "Bema's balls.  _Stop her_!" She shouted.

The rider closest to the girl tried to grab her, but even from a distance Eomer saw his grip was not firm enough to stop her: he did not want to hurt her, and she was too determined to move, to be stopped by a casual hold. But Eomer had not expected how fast she moved however - had not thought her capable of it at all. He did not even see the axe she'd been holding until she swung and buried it into one of the prisoners' faces.

The sound of metal splitting bone stopped Eomer in his tracks.

The blade bit deep, blood splattering across her face and chest. The man fell with hardly a word, but for the surprised look on his face. She stepped towards him then, put her foot on his chest to hold him down and grabbed the handle with both hand to pull it free from his skull. Eomer knew before she raised the axe again that she would strike a second time. Eomer started towards her again - to grab her, to stop her. From behind him, he heard Theodred shouting for the archers to hold. She might have been shot where she stood had his cousin not been as careful a man as he was, but but Eomer doubted she understood that - or anything - in that moment.

But the other prisoners were not in any danger from her, it seemed. She buried the axe into the skull of the dead man again. And then again, and again, until she was screaming and she could not yield the weapon anymore because the handle slipped through her bloody fingers.

She went to her knees then, took out her knife and stabbed the place where the man's face and mangled chest used to be, over and over. Eomer saw her hands slip but she did not stop even when she cut herself.

She could not stop anymore than they could stop her. All the men and women around the carnage had frozen and could not look away. There was something animalistic about such rage, about this bloodlust that was not bloodlust at all. It rooted them all where they stood; not afraid, but unable - unwilling - to come between a living being capable of surviving this much rage, and the object of her wrath.

Not even Theodred spoke. Fifty men in that clearing by the woods, and there was no sound in the night but for that of her heavy breaths, and that of a body being torn to pieces.

Eomer knew why they did not move. They were all soldiers: they knew what loos and violence looked like, the mark it left on people. They all knew how it distorted the mind. How sometimes it made one vicious. How sometimes, you  _could not_  stop… and one death was not enough.

They could recognize when brutality came in retaliation of brutality.

But it was done now, and allowing her to continue would only mean allowing her to hurt herself more than she had already been hurt.

Eomer moved slowly, took her by the wrists and pulled her into the circle of his arms, away from the corpse. She fought him and almost slipped through his hands, the warm blood coating her forearms as slippery as butter. But he pulled her away regardless of her protests, and did not let go. As he dragged her from the body, she kicked out at it with her leg, screaming, writhing to be free again.

"Enough. It's over. It's done. He is dead. Do you hear me? He is dead. It is enough!"

But she did not hear him or she did not care, because she still fought him. She kept trying to break free until all her strength was spent and she stumbled on her feet as he dragged her away. It did not take long at all, in truth, for her strength to give out. He was barely away from the scent of fresh blood when she stopped struggling completely. For all that it had looked as if the anger of the gods themselves had moved through her, as soon as the haze of her bloodlust was broken, her strength seemed to leave her as well. Eomer knew that had he let her go in that moment, she would not have been able to stand on her own two feet.

She was completely still by then. Her head had fallen on his shoulder just as her whole body grew heavy. Eomer could see her face - streaked in blood and the small rivers her tears had dug through it, as they fell. And kept falling. Her face was turned towards the stars, as if she expected them to speak to her, and when they did not, she seemed angry at the silence, and more tears fell.

"I will let you go now." He spoke as gently as he could, and waited for her to give him any sight that she understood, but she did not. Slowly, Eomer released her - and then was forced to grab her arm again, to steady her when she swayed.

It was only then that he noticed Brigit - she had followed them silently, and urged him with a hand to step away. He did, and she took the girl by the waist to steady her and help her sit down at the base of a tree.

"Enough standing around.  _Move_!" Bryna barreled through, shouting. "Get back to your posts! The first rider i see idling about will be the one taking the third watch for a  _month_."

Eomer knew he had to ride to Aldburg with the gondorian, but she looked in no fit state to move so much as an inch. At least she cried no more, but he was not sure that this newfound stillness was better. If he had not known she was living, he wouldn't even have thought she was breathing.

"Shit, she looks like she crawled through someone's guts."

"She did." Eomer hears himself say. He could almost laugh. it should not be funny, but it was, somehow. He did not know.

"Aye, she did."

Brigit stood up. "We need to get the blood off her."

"And how do we do that? Bathe her in the stream?"

Brigit's answer was as calm as Bryna's temper was quick. "Yes."

Red groaned. "Ah fuck me."

And though Bryna was her captain and second in command to Theodred, she did as Brigit said. Together, they linked their arms around the foreigner's waist and lifted her up.

Eomer knew better than to offer his help. This was not the first time they had done something like this: found some girl or woman somewhere, and no man was allowed to touch her. This was not quite like the other times, but still, he did not think his help would be needed.

"Thea, bring a change of clothes." Brigit said. And then more softly, "Come we will get the blood off you. You will feel better once you have had a wash."

The girl turned to Brigit, reacting for the first time, as if she had understood the words spoken to her, even though Eomer knew that was not true; she could not have, since Brigit had spoken rohirrim. They went into the dark, towards the stream past the nearest trees. Five men of Glena's command went after them as guards, and Eomer watched them go.

Behind him, he heard his cousin's light footsteps. "You were right." Theodred said. "She needed to be watched better."

Eomer shook his head. It made no difference now. And then, "Whose axe did she take?"

"Leofric's. Stole if from his saddlebags as he saw to the supplies. He swears he didn't even hear her move."

Eomer snorted. "After what they saw her do, tomorrow many will be swearing she is a fea."

"Yes, I imagine they will. … The rest of the prisoners swear she was not touched."

Eomer scowled. He'd heard that lie so many times he'd scarcely believed it, no matter whose lips it fell. "They would."

"There was another girl with her, when she was taken. She is dead now, they said."

Was she? They made it sound as if she slipped and fell, through no fault of their own. But most guilty men, once caught, tended to use such words.

"Murdered, more like." Eomer gritted out.

"Yes. She did not have an easy death."

Eomer gritted his teeth, but said nothing. He had not needed to be told that, not truly. Easy deaths did not often inspire such savage vengeance.

Eomer turned to his cousin. "What was their aim? Murder, or kidnapping?"

"Murder. But they did not expect the girls to be together, so they kidnapped the second. Apparently she is the only daughter of a lord who would pay three times her weight in gold to have her back."

"You don't believe them." Eomer said after a moment. He could see in Theodred's eyes that his cousin doubted the words even as he spoke them.

"I do not. The is more they refuse to say." Theodred put his hand on Eomer's shoulder. "Take them to Aldburg. Find out all you can from them, and send word to me. I will send an emissary to the White City, to inform them of what happened. If she is anyone worth taking such trouble over, someone will claim her."

Eomer walked with Theodred to his cousin's horse. His riders were ready and waiting for the prince to continue to Edoras.

"And if she is not?"

"The we will need not worry that someone is trying to start a conflict between the Mark and Gondor by bringing her here." Theodred's smile was grim. "Let us hope we are that lucky."

o

After his watch was over, Eomer walked back into the camp and sat by the fire. He had expected the gondorian to be asleep, but she was sitting with her back against one of the trees, as far as she could from his riders without stepping out of the circle of light the fire afforded. Her eyes were wide open, though she stared into nothingness without any expression.

He wanted to ask Brigid if the gondorian had said anything at all, but he knew it would be wasted breath. She looked cleaner than before, but not less lost.

"What are you so grim about?" Red asked him as she sat down to his right and handed him a cup. He took a sip of the tea in it and winced.

"Must you always brew it to death?"

"Yes. Answer my question."

"Sometimes I think you forget that I'm a Marshall and you a captain."

"Sometimes, you forget i used to beat you bloody on the training grounds."

"It's been a long time since then, Red."

Her look was doubtful and a little insulted. "Are you implying i could not beat you bloody now, Eomundson?"

"Just marking the passage of time."

"Aye, time has passed, and not too kindly, for you." Her smirk was so familiar he could see it forming in her eyes before it actually appeared on her lips. "Your looks have much deteriorated since you had peach fuzz on your chin."

Gamlin, who was sitting by the fire as well, chuckled low, but did not interrupt their banter.

"Has she said anything at all?" He finally asked. He was still despondent, but not as much as before. Bryna had a way of jerking away his fouler moods, even though most times, she

"No. Nor is she likely to, either, I think. Had it not been for her shivering, by the stream, I would not have thought she even noticed the cold."

She shared a look with Eomer and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. After an outbursts like hers, some came back to themselves, others did not even remember it happening. Sometimes there were tears - Eomer had seen men hardier than himself sobb with heartbreak. Even anger or fear would have been better reactions than this stillness.

Those who were still and silent did not last long.

Eomer got up again and walked to his saddlebags. He took a small pot of cleaning ointment and some bandages that Hild always put there for him, and walked towards where the gondorian was sitting. Her eyes narrowed on him the moment he stepped in her direction. Huddled like that, under those blankets, it was easy to forget that she stood almost at a height with him and that she had shredded a man to ribbons just hours prior.

He sat down a foot away from her.

"For your wounds." he said and held out the small pot to her. She did not reach out to take it, just kept looking.

"The cut on your throat and your wrists need cleaning. If you don't, they will fester."

It was eerie, the way she stared. Not many men could hold his gaze so directly when Eomer was feeling this grim.

At least she did not seem like a cornered doe anymore.

He uncapped the pot then, and took some of the oily, pungent-smelling paste into his fingers. She flinched away from him though, when he reached for her hand. He tried again, and without looking away from him, she twitched away again.

Eomer threw the bandages at her in irritation. She caught the cloth and threw it back at him. He looked at her then, at the stubborn set of her jaw and allowed himself a smile. Stillness and silence may not be a good thing, but there was fight in her still. Perhaps he did not need to worry as he did.

"Alright, then. Suit yourself."

He put the the bandages and the pot down on the corner of the blanket she was covered with, and then sat himself down on the ground further away from her and tried to curl into himself, so that he might look smaller sitting there, further than an arms' length away. Deliberately so. He said nothing, let her watch him with those suspicious eyes until she felt sure he would not move again. From this distance he could see her eyes were not dark at all, but some strange pale color he could not make out. It seemed like it would be all night before she was convinced, but it was not. Tentatively, a hand came out of the folds of the blanket, and she reached for the ointment and the bandages herself. Very slowly, she pulled the sleeves of her borrowed shirt up, and started cleaning the wounds on her wrists, wincing every now and then.

Brigit had said that aside from some ugly bruising and the wounds on her wrists and ankles, she had been unharmed. Eomer had been surprised to hear it. She might have been a hostage of value, and thus kept away from harm, but men who would kill a girl and kidnap another did not tend to think of rape as something that would harm a woman. That they did no such thing unnerved him.

Who was she, to demand such care?

"Can you give me a name?"

She looked at him again, and with a slowness that exposed her exhaustion, gestured with her hand.

"You can write?"

She nodded. Dipped a long finger in the pot again and put some of the paste on the cut on her throat.

"Good. Once at Aldburg, you can have some paper and ink and tell us who you are, and to whom we can send word for you. In the meantime, you will be my guest."


End file.
